Of an Evening
by My Barbaric YAWP
Summary: The bed of Mr. James Bond is empty tonight, but his mind is full with memories of the women he loved.


Of an Evening

Another small foray into the Bond psyche born of too much thought. And I don't own James Bond. Enjoy!

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The bed of Mr. James Bond is empty tonight. The apartment always seems so strange without the soft tread and soothing voice of a woman in the place. He doesn't spend too many nights alone here—he doesn't spend many nights here period. Or too many alone, for that matter. But when he is alone and he is here, well, it's a rare occurrence.

He spends his birthday this way. Another year is no cause for celebration, even if Moneypenny does insist on baking him a cake. Another year means another scar, another ache, another target—and he's not getting any younger. That's what a birthday means; it means he's another damn year older and swiftly approaching retirement, uselessness, and the MI6 graveyard of dead agents—or worse, forgotten ones. Birthdays are occasions for solitude and vodka, and bed is no place to be feeling like an old fool.

He spends the anniversary of his parents' death alone, too. It's not a drinking occasion, though god knows it should be. Somehow he can't drink and remember his mother at the same time—which is damned inconvenient since remembering her always makes him want to reach for a bottle—any bottle. But it's the one night a year he gives up the self-medication for the pain—for the sweet, fleeting glimpses of a woman he'll never have the chance to love completely. Still, her night is no place for another, and so his bed is empty, his body's sober, and his eyes are damp.

He spends a night alone with Vesper, too. It's a vodka night—a cigarette night—a night with his first love and his first, grown loss. He spends it in bed, imagining his arms around her, his hands stroking her smooth skin just for the sake of feeling her presence. As the alcohol seeps in and sleep over takes him, he could almost swear she's there under his gentle hands for the night—smiling into his neck, warming his chest with the light weight of her hand. He can hear her soft breathing, smell her sweet hair, touch her warm flesh, taste her sweaty forehead—see her bright, penetrating eyes staring directly into the little window behind his. She knows him; she loves him, and so he gives himself over to her care for the night, sleeping in her arms until the next day dawns.

But tonight is a one martini night—one martini made for him by his wife while he tucks the children into bed—three girls, three boys. It's Tracy's night, and so he spends it sipping her perfectly shaken martini and talking quietly until the wee hours of the morning. He tells her about the office and asks about her day. They talk about the kids and when her father's next coming up to stay. Felix is growing up to be just like his father—little Anne looked just like her mother when he kissed her goodnight.

He kisses her softly, repeatedly, whenever he can, wherever he can—forehead, nose, neck, earlobe—even her lips, when he can catch her in a moment of silence. Small kisses, sweet kisses—no need to rush now.

They talk about the past, about the beautiful wedding and his proposal in some barn in the Alps. They talk about the future—it's time to move out of London and start thinking about an estate in the country, one with a guest house for her father in his old age—as if Draco would ever consent to live there. They talk until there is nothing left to say, and then he holds her close and strokes her hair, lips pressed to her forehead.

He carries her to bed as the first fingers of light crest the horizon. They make love slowly—ever so very slowly—and he whispers her name over and over again like a prayer—_Theresa, Theresa_—because tonight she is his saint. He holds her close as the sun rises, whispering his love into her unhearing ears. He does not notice the sun—doesn't care about the new day and the new job. He holds her and loves her without a thought to time. Tomorrow he will be Britain's finest weapon once again. Tomorrow vodka will flow and his bed will be warmed with more than a memory. Tomorrow he'll be Agent 007—Bond, James Bond—but for tonight he's just her husband—the husband of Mrs. Tracy Bond.

And tonight they have all the time in the world.


End file.
